On Locked-up in #Lockdown #NewZealand

There The H and I sat, in the spa pool, gin and tonics in hand, snow on the mountains, dusk and soon darkness settling on Day #20, and he asked cheerily. ‘So! Have you knocked off your #Lockdown To-Do list?’

Say what, I was meant to have one. FFS. ‘No!’ I said, softly.

The only thing I wanted to-do when we went into home-arrest was stay sane. I also planned to treat the whole peculiar situation like a neverending house-party. Easter was fast approaching; we’d have kids at home. We’d feast and make merry.

I stood in the Pak n Save car park in 2 degrees with windchill at 7.45 on Tuesday 31^st March 2020. Getting more and more irritated by the cheerful woman in front of me who would-NOT-stand on her 2-metre sticker. I pulled my hoodie up. I told her to stand on her sticker. She smiled. Did it once. Then she did not. It reminded me of my eldest, Lily who was infuriated when her sister Eloise graduated to upstairs Montessori then spent her first day not understanding that standing-on-the-blue-line was quite simply standing-on-the-blue-line.

Approximately one hour later, I was packing my $877 of shopping into my boot. I had no flour. Nor toilet paper. FYI. Just food. Shit loads of food. And the last two bottles of my favourite French rosé I found all alone, bereft of company. Shelf isolating. I wasn’t planning on going out again. Definitely not into supermarket hell with those goddam sticker reprobates.

I didn’t really want to let on but I was sort of looking forward to lockdown. Then. I was taking it as a challenge. A four-week family holiday challenge. We’d all have a great time. Together. At home.

I could write! A short story, set in another reality. And read! My mega pile of new books. Only I haven’t. I usually write a daily journal. The HRT Diaries. But Covid-cam didn’t have the same ring. What would I record? The gluten fest I was partaking in. The fact I’d run out of pink shampoo and would fade-to-grey. The fact I couldn’t be ferked plucking my eyebrows or anything else. The fact that every day became a challenge of extended physical exertion of the gardening kind. I know now, it’s how I deal with existential stress. I flog myself.

We live on what, Steve Braunias described in my first ‘About The Author’ in the PR pack for my first book (back in that carefree year, 2015.) “Jane lives in Queenstown, above the Shotover River, on a rambling lifestyle block.” How had he got it so right, had he googled realtime and hovered above my house and surrounding ramblingness? I always joke that I have a garden in a paddock. But autumn is an easy time in the garden and our 16-acre no-lifestyle-block. It’s cutting back my 200 peony plants and dragging the leaves to my compost dump 200 metres each time. Thinking all the while that my flappy triceps must be firming up along with my calves and that I must be counteracting the famine eating I was doing. At least, a little bit. After chopping, I pulled out the large, gone to seed weeds and limed each plant. The H sprayed the beds. And so it continued the tidy up of raspberries and asparagus. And weeds. The wheelbarrowing of endless horse poo. The mulching. The sun shone. I wore shorts and a singlet. I cracked a tan.

Before we had children we worked all the time on our plot, like that nutty couple in the British TV show The Goodlife. On Sundays, we’d make margaritas in the studio we lived in above our packing shed. Sometimes, The H would go out mowing on the tractor. In the nude. He’d do drive-byes, standing up, for my entertainment.

But talking of margaritas, this picture was pretty much lockdown-me: clean hair (my sole contribution to personal grooming), comfy cotton-knit combo and cocktail. Until the pre-Easter week from hell, when the fridge light went out, our second hot water cylinder blew, our large glass clock fell off the wall and split in two, and the glass vitamizer cracked; essentially rendering itself unfit for service. Fucked.

I moaned about its demise to my FaboStory author chat group. We were busy swinging our kids online writing competition into action. Doing our bit to give creative kids, and kids of creative parents an outlet. And having a laugh and sharing our best wine skulling gifs. Writers love wine. Sue thought I’d find an alternative electric device fit for crushing ice. In my drawer. Actually, I don’t know what Sue thought. Sue? By Easter Monday, under the keen advice of Melinda I’d ordered another mixer. A Sunbeam 2 Way Blender $209.99. It had a flashing covid-yellow sign beside it on Farmer’s website, claiming its essentialness and that it would be delivered during lockdown. It hasn’t turned up, nor has customer service answered my endless bleating cries.

Thank heavens for goodsorts like Becky of PGG Wrightson’s Cromwell who sent Star’s old-timer horse feed straight away by courier. I hadn’t even paid for it. Don’t worry, I’ve got your address, she said. Bloody good sort! Unlike me, Star’s losing condition. He’s rising 29. We’ve had a cold snap. It was so great to feed him his tucker last night. He does happy half-rears at the gate when he hears me mixing it. Crazy old coot. 

As for our mad huntaway, she cannot for the life of her understand the lack of car rides. But she’s loved all the walks. The tracks below our property have never been so populated. Argghghgh. For loner walker me this has been an abomination. One time, I bushwacked through brambles and over fallen willows just to avoid the packs of mountain bikers who were obvs breaking social distancing rules. Then, I started to take alternate routes. I also started to take an old red backpack and fill it with pinecones. To give purpose to my walking. I felt a sort of madness setting into these walks. If I heard the presence of humans I turned away and I kept my head down. I filled my bag with the driest most attractive strobile specimens. Lofty, gnarled macrocarpas loomed above me as I scrambled up steep banks. I imagined a covid-coven. A girl gang of corona-witches. We’d meet beside the damp shade of the river, stir a cauldron of horse bats and pricky pine needles. Or just shriek at the goddam mind fuckery of all this. A plague killing humans in their thousands ... But not here. Not in Jacinda land. We are shut down. But we are very alive.

And we’ve all become a nation of bakers. Fighting over high-grade flour at the supermarket. Up at 5 am kneading our sourdough for its second rise. Urm not me. My bread baking timing is free flow. I managed lunch at 4pm yesterday. It did also involved the picking and roasting of cherry tomatoes. Harry Styles’ Adore You always comes on 87 FM when I’m pottering in the greenhouse. Someone out there is probably recording one rn, but Harry’s will always be my lockdown anthem. I have it turned up loud and I dance like nobody’s watching, cos nobody can … Strawberry lipstick state of mind

The calendar on the wall in my kitchen is an endless hashtag of numbers. Day #23 for us. Day #6, for Lily. She’s in ‘Hotel Quarantine’ aka the Novotel Auckland airport, having exited Copenhagen in a 24 hour pack down. And flying home Qatar Airways, via Doha. One of ten passengers. A woman in the queue behind her said, ‘I guess they won’t give us balcony rooms, might be afraid we’ll jump.’ A sort of joke. There is a cop permanently on duty in the foyer.

Three meals are delivered each day. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. A knock at the door and a scurry of feet, then a paper bag with an array of cardboard containers and packaged goods is found. This was yesterday’s breakfast. Fit for a tradie. She can exercise in the car park. Once a day. It has palm trees in it of all things. Growing out of the concrete. And road cones designating the smoking area. The smokers get way more outside time she’s complained and jested about ordering a packet of ciggies. This is possible. The hotel will buy things from the BP across the road, should you request it. Luckily Lily’s busy with university assignments and her remote job. Keeping the mind busy for 8 more nights.

Lockdown really has been a test of keeping busy. However, I think it’s a time to be kind to yourself. Don’t panic about to-do lists. Creating that masterpiece, learning Spanish, crocheting a rug out of string or losing a few kg. As Darwin said, It’s survival of the fittest. Whichever way you do it.

A groovy upside of #Lockdown is the many cool kiwi artists who’ve turned their hand at creating entertaining content for us. All for free. I wish they had an easily accessible government subsidy. Jacinda? One of my favourites is ex Sunday Magazine columnist, Leah McFall’s right royal parody -  Karori Confidential. It begins: Charles (since being diagnosed with Covid-19) and Camilla are sent to the colonies and find themselves self-isolating in Karori. Their luggage goes missing and it finally turns up along with mega box of sex toys (nipple clamps and feather ticklers if I remember correctly.) Kiwis have gone mental buying sex toys during lockdown according to my sources. As you were.

Megs and Hazza are about to show up. I cannot wait.